


and i want to fight but i can't contend

by ariadnes



Series: i don't want to rest in peace [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Developing Relationship, Emotional Manipulation, Episode Fix-it, M/M, Post-Season/Series 05, Pre-Relationship, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 15:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes/pseuds/ariadnes
Summary: Jonathan knew fear, just like he knew that Bruce Wayne was running from his own.That wouldn't do.In which a meeting changes everything post 5x11.





	and i want to fight but i can't contend

**Author's Note:**

> the finale hurt me so here's me fixing it in an utterly non-canon capacity. also angst.
> 
> some background that's only mildly elaborated on in the fic: jonathan and bruce have had a handful of meetings since the events of _take a white pill (you'll feel alright)_ most notably after 5x07.

He sat in the church, waiting, feeling ridiculously naked without his suit to cover him. It — mask, gloves and gas dispenser included — had not managed to survive the bombing on the Narrows, burning down along with the rest of his headquarters. It was a loss, of course, but he knew how to adapt it for durability in the future. How fireproofing hadn't crossed his mind before, especially considering his acquaintanceship with Firefly, he didn't know. It was a clear oversight on his part.

Still, he wasn't one to be needlessly pessimistic. Even if he felt exposed out of the suit, he knew on good authority that his regular appearance put people more at ease. Eye to eye contact made it easier to steer conversations where he wanted them to go and, call it a hunch, he had a feeling he'd be having quite the conversation with Bruce Wayne if the events of the night were anything to go off of. There was something about disasters that made Bruce seek him out, searching for _something_ in his presence — misplaced camaraderie; folie à deux, maybe.  

Jonathan wasn't one to turn him away. Despite everything — despite who they were and what they did and who they had allowed themselves to become — he was endeared. Something about Bruce Wayne, with his soft hands and his bleeding heart, caught his interest.

It was a mistake in the making.

And yet.

Jonathan couldn't help but hold onto whatever it was that they shared. All he had — all _they_ had — was half-a-dozen clandestine meetings to count and cradle close to his chest, locked away with all the other unbearably tender, miraculously uncalloused parts of himself.

Not that such things mattered in the general scheme of things. Jonathan was already a patchwork of knotted and torn pieces. What he felt, whether it was real or induced by the thrill of being seen, monster and all, was unimportant. He had his plans still — a vision of Gotham sent into fear-driven delirium that was as breathtaking as it was unrealized and nothing, not even Bruce Wayne and his blinding kindness, would change that.

Of course, that didn't mean that Jonathan wouldn't stay and listen to what he had to say.

It was, he told himself, sheer opportunism.

The last few times they'd run into each other — whether in the church or in the Narrows or, memorably, in the wreckage of a chemical plant — had been enlightening, to say the least.

Slowly, he was piecing together the wretched history of Gotham, the history he'd been denied once he'd crossed the threshold of the asylum, and what a tale it was, filled with resurrections and kidnappings and mind-control. It was convoluted and Bruce only revealed bits at a time, far more untrusting than Jonathan would have expected, leaving him unclear on broader details, but still, the thrill of _knowing_ , of finally understanding the way the cogs of the city spun, was more than enough to keep him interested.

So he waited in the church — the very one that housed their first impromptu meeting — for Bruce Wayne to show up, expecting him to be as grave and imploring and righteous as ever.

He was none of those things.

Instead, he just seemed — defeated.

That was disappointing.

Bruce Wayne entered the church with the poise of a man who had never once shied away from the limelight. His footsteps were loud, echoing over the marble floors and across the wooden pews, as he made his way to where Jonathan sat at the end of an aisle. There was something off about him. There was something _new_ about the way he carried himself, some awful emotional turmoil brewing plainly under his skin that set off Jonathan's fight or flight reflex.

He was not one for unnecessary emotionality but, he thought as Bruce sat down beside him, his long coat brushing his legs, perhaps he could use this to his advantage. After all, he did have some experience in dealing with pitiful creatures.

When he turned to look at Bruce he was surprised by the grief he saw lurking in the shadows on his face. He was, Jonathan had realized some time ago, unfortunately pretty, even as tired and cracking as he was now. There was a bruise forming on his cheek and his hair was starting to curl from the rain and his mouth, he noticed with lazy interest, was unfairly red. He looked wretched and wonderful and Jonathan couldn't help but wonder at the events of the night — couldn't help but try to piece together Bruce's involvement with what he'd managed to hear from the grapevine, each report more and more fantastical: the government bombing the Narrows, a firing squad on civilians and so on.

Bruce was never very talkative, a pleasant reprieve for Jonathan who was used to dealing with the constant, inane chatter of Jerome or Tetch, but his silence was weightier now, calculated. He sat quietly for a long moment, gazing up towards a stained glass depiction of the crucifixion, his eyes wide but unfocused, glassy with something that Jonathan only half-recognized — something that went deeper than regular hurt and left scars in its wake.

Jonathan felt the beginnings of unease prickle under his skin. Something wasn't right.

How was he to address it, though?

Through subversion.

"Do you believe in God?" he asked, a picture of idleness. He watched Bruce closely, cataloging his expressions, each, somehow, more depressing than the last.

"No." There was an air of tragic finality hanging around him. "I might have once, but—" he cut himself off, expression pinching. All of his words were coming out stilted. It sounded as if he'd been crying earlier. "Gotham's not really a place for God, is it? Especially now. I mean, if there is a God and if he cares about mankind, then why let any of this happen? Why hurt so many people?"

He was speaking rhetorically, of course, far more bitter than Jonathan would have expected. Bruce, it seemed, had finally come unstoppered, just barely, just a smidge, spilling out all sorts of things that he'd otherwise keep unsaid.

To his credit, Jonathan just sat, listening, waiting, positive that Bruce was nearing the edge of an epiphany, some grand realization about human fortitude and togetherness.

Per usual, he was too good, too caring. From what he'd seen, his kind nature only ever seemed to hurt him. It was pathetic, but also the barest bit intriguing as Jonathan could tell that underneath the surface, buried under his skin, rooted in his marrow, was the same secret, horrible _knowing_ that came to all people who played with monsters. The very same type that Jonathan had that urged him to take his powerlessness and shape it into his greatest strength.

Everyone wanted a chance to play at God. Bruce Wayne was no different, no matter how much he liked to pretend to be. There was a part of him that was crying out for a chance to take the city into his hands and to do what he'd just admitted God could not.

Now to get him to that point — to finally be honest with himself about what lurked in the shadowed corners of his mind. To finally be free to do what he truly wanted, because—

Jonathan knew what Bruce wanted.

He knew it instinctively — and how the thought made his teeth ache — in the same way that he knew that when Bruce Wayne spoke generally about the suffering of the people that he really meant _all_ the people, good and bad, monstrous or not. From anyone else, anyone who hadn't experienced the worst of mankind, his surety would have come across as naivety, but from Bruce, it was just earnest, resilient faith that had somehow escaped squashing alongside his other childhood fantasies. Jonathan envied and pitied him in equal measure.

Bruce, unaware of his thoughts, continued on, seemingly lost in his own memories. "My father would have said that the suffering of the righteous is only a test of faith, that we have to trust in God's judgment. I used to believe him. It's a nice sentiment, at least." He pursed his lips together, finally tearing his eyes away from the crucifixion.

Jonathan wondered if he thought himself a martyr, too.

The longer they sat, the more certain he was that something cataclysmic had happened tonight. There was no other reason to explain why Bruce would be letting his guard down, letting deeply buried parts of himself unravel for Jonathan to collect. Seeing him so vulnerable was unexpected, but delightful all the same. He always did have a soft spot for broken things — at least ones that were able to piece themselves back together, barbed and haphazard and gloriously reborn.

Only, he wasn't sure if he wanted to twist Bruce into a shattered thing. There was something about him. There was something _wrong_ with him. He found that he didn't want to tear him down further, instead, he wanted to wind him up and watch him go, destruction at his heels. It was a beautiful thought.  

He was becoming soft.

How quaint.

"You grew up religious?" he asked, curious. "I thought the Wayne's were paradigms of scientific advancement. Don't tell me that the Gazette _lied_."

"Is there a reason you can't have one without the other?" Bruce answered, his mouth twitching wryly for a moment before any traces of humor vanished as quickly as they came. "My parents made sure to teach me our prayers and to fast, but they weren't strict by any means. Hanukkah, Purim, Passover — you get the picture. My father wanted me to make my own choices in every regard." He was quiet for a long moment, dropping his eyes to stare at his hands. He felt guilty. Boring. "Sometimes I think he'd be disappointed that I gave it all up."

What would it have been like, Jonathan mused, to have a father who encouraged originality?

Jealousy twisted over in his stomach. Poor, orphaned boy with his sweet, loving parents ripped away from him. Who could imagine what that would be like? Who could bear the thought of that grief? He bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood.

"What about your mom?" he asked, only half-interested in answer. He wondered if he could bring him to tears.

"I don't know." He blinked slowly. There was a new hitch in his breath. "I can't even remember her voice. I can't remember her favorite song or the color of her nails. I can't—" He stopped himself, swallowing roughly. "I don't know."

Perhaps Bruce was already more shattered than Jonathan had originally thought.

Or, perhaps he was less. At the very least he wasn't so wrecked by the evening that he'd given up all sense about the weight of his secrets. He held onto information about his mother like it was a lifeline keeping him afloat. Maybe it was. Orphanhood affected people in strange ways.

Jonathan could hardly bear to look at him. It was looking into a mirror of the past. They were not to the same, he knew. They were both different beasts entirely, but there was something about Bruce and his cotton-edged grief, unresolved and oozing even after so many years, that reminded Jonathan of who he was before his rebirth — before his great understanding of self.

Had he been so at war with himself, too?

He wanted to rip his way through Bruce's chest, tearing out whatever tenderness he could, tearing until he turned as embittered and spiteful as everyone else. He wanted nothing to do with his gentleness. He wanted barred teeth and a bloody mouth and mounting hysterics.

He wanted to be able to look at him and feel nothing but his regular sadistic curiosity. He wanted to look at him and not care.

Because he did.

For some reason, unknown to himself, he cared about Bruce Wayne. He cared both too much and too little, an odd parabola of emotions, violent and rotten and without forgiveness. He cared for him and he hated him; he wanted to swallow him whole, to leave nothing behind, to press himself into his joints.

He wondered if that was Bruce's plan all along. He wondered if he'd somehow managed to keep five steps ahead of Jonathan's five steps. He wondered, amused and furious, if he even had the capacity for such manipulation.  

He doubted it.

Bruce made for a dismal picture, still staring at his hands, unmoving. His eyes might have been wet, though that was probably wishful thinking, and Jonathan, had he been a better person, wouldn't have pushed. As it was, his curiosity proved to be more important than any attempt at sympathy he could make.

"You look like you have something you wanna get off your chest, baby."

The endearment slipped off of his tongue with practiced ease.

It was supposed to be an inversion of comfort. He was mimicking the same saccharine tone of voice that his Grandpa would use when he'd chuckle and say to him, " _Well, bless your heart_ ," right before grabbing Jonathan by the ear to drag him into the barn for the evening. With Bruce — who was so close to transcendence, to outliving his pesky sense of morality — it worked beautifully to poke at his buttons.

Power was power after all, and he had to take it where he could.

Bruce shook his head, unconvincingly. "I don't."

"Oh, _c'mon_. Don't tell me you're frightened of a friendly ear."

Finally, he looked away from his hands, turning to him in a sharp, half-angry motion, looking over him with dark, inscrutable eyes. He was searching for something, looking for an answer to a question that Jonathan wasn't privy to, making some unknowable judgment.

He must have been satisfied with whatever he saw. He sounded relieved. "You're trying to manipulate me."

 _Obviously_ , he thought but didn't say.

"Is it working?"

"Of course not," Bruce snapped, his pretty face pinching up. Then he sighed. "What do you care, anyway?"

"Who said I cared?" Jonathan asked. "Maybe I'm just trying to be polite. Make conversation."

Again, Bruce looked at him, quiet for a long moment. He wished, fleetingly, to crack open his head and unspool his thoughts. What was happening behind his brown eyes? What conclusions was he drawing?

"Did you know that there's a Hallmark movie about my parents?" he asked after the silence had dragged on, clinically detached. "They made it only a few years after they died, so they couldn't use any of our names, but the story's the same. An affluent couple walks into an alleyway with their son, but only the son walks out. I wasn't allowed to be angry about its production, though, because if I was angry it meant that I was poorly-adjusted or that Alfred wasn't a competent guardian or whatever else the tabloids wanted to throw at us."

He humored him. "How was the movie?"

Bruce's answer was clipped. "Mediocre."

Jonathan tried to wrap his head around the idea.

He imagined waking up one day to find some gaudy theatrical production about his life. He imagined watching his father's death in stunning high definition or, worse, his mothers. He imagined idyllic scenes set in Georgia, the sun high in the sky and a perky, red barn sitting on top of a hill, the entire scene deprived of the real depravity that plagued it. He imagined someone carving up his personal tragedies for mass consumption, brutally callous.

How uniquely horrible.

He found himself at a loss for words. "That's a shame."

Bruce's expression tightened. Perhaps flippancy had been a miscalculation.

"A shame," he repeated, slowly, voice tight and close to bursting. All of his angry, ugly parts were rising to the surface and Jonathan had the pleasure of being the one to incite it. "All I have left of my parents are my memories and someone out there, who didn't even _know_ them, decided that they were entitled to their memory, too."

His nose scrunched up in distaste, unintentionally endearing. "I can't even remember what they were really like, you know? It's been so long since— well. My father was good and my mother was kind, that's what everyone always says about them, and I don't— I don't _disagree_ , I just don't know. I didn't _know_ them. I loved them and I miss them but I never really knew them, and, because of that movie, everyone who saw it thinks that they know them and what they were like, and—"

He broke off, eyes unmistakably wet. He cared so much about such frivolous things: fairness and envy and his guilt to do with the latter.

When he spoke up again, once the silence had dragged on longer than comfortable, his voice was tight. "My Uncle Jake used to call and tell me stories about my mother, but he stopped calling when I was fifteen, and both of my parents left journals behind, and scrapbooks. I used to read them until my eyes hurt, but now they're gone along with everything else I owned.

"Years of memories are just _gone._ Everything my parents left me is _gone._  My home, Wayne Tower, all of it." He turned to look at Jonathan, his glare piercing. "But yeah. It's a _shame_ that the movie that exploited my parent's memory was poorly produced."

Well, well.

He _had_ wanted to wind up, so it was only fair for him to sit quietly and watch him go. There was a surprising amount of hate in his heart, and now it was all spilling out, leaving a veritable feast for Jonathan to pick at.

Bruce Wayne had such potential. He could be the prettiest monster in the whole city if he just let his anger run wild — if he applied himself properly.

He'd get to that point one way or another, Jonathan was sure.

Pushing those thoughts away to dwell over later, he instead turned his focus on all that Bruce revealed to him. He remembered hearing about Jeremiah Valeska's destruction of Wayne Manor, even if Bruce hadn't mentioned it when they'd seen each other after Valeska's chemical swim. He could not, however, remember hearing anything about Wayne Tower's destruction, which, considering the building's prominence in Gotham, meant something had happened to it recently. That day, perhaps.

Once more, his thoughts turned towards the bombs that had been sent from the mainland, the ones that destroyed the Narrows, and connected the dots to the best of his ability.

"The woman in charge of relief efforts, Secretary Walker, she ordered the bomb strikes, didn't she?" he asked, already sure of the answer. "She targeted Wayne Tower?"

"You know a lot for a hermit," Bruce said, tilting his head back to stare at the stained glass window again. "The bombs were her. She wanted to level Gotham and kill every living thing within the city limits." He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Wayne Tower wasn't one her casualties though. It was mine."

He held in an incredulous laugh. "Are you trying to tell me that you blew up your own building?"

Bruce didn't say anything.

"Well, I'll be. Aren't you just full of surprises?"

"It had to be done."

Jonathan hummed, twisting scenario after scenario over in his mind; what could be done with a man who had nothing left? "If you say so."

"It had to be done," Bruce repeated, his voice sharper. "It was the only way to stop— Walker."

"Oh, baby," he said, halfway mocking. "I could care less why you did what you did. It sounds to me like the only person you're trying to convince is yourself."

"Would it be such a bad thing if I was?" he asked, working himself into a frenzy. "Maybe I don't want everything in my life to be destroyed because of me. _Maybe_ I don't want to have to add my family legacy onto the list of things that I've ruined. I blew up the last thing I had of my parents and I did it to _save_ this city, but that doesn't vindicate me, does it? Entire city blocks are destroyed, people are _dead_ , and that's _my_ fault.

"Just like the bombing on the Narrows is _my_ fault and Ivy's plan to poison the water supply is _my_ fault and Gotham being cut-off from the mainland in the first place is _my_ fault," he said, near spitting, his voice rising with every incident he listed. "Selina was paralyzed because of _me_. Alfred's back was broken to get to _me._

"Everyone I get close to is hurt in horrible ways. My parents were only in that alleyway because I wanted to leave our movie early. They died because I was too impatient to sit still for another twenty minutes. That's my fault— just like everything else that's happened has been my fault. Wayne Tower blowing up is nothing new."

Jonathan could have jumped in joy. Bruce broke open so cleanly, unspooling his brain without any needling or prompting, letting out years of rot in one fell swoop.

Now, though, he had to consider a more pressing question. Deciding which was bigger: Bruce Wayne's god complex or his martyr complex. Either way, he was hooked.

Gentleness, however, was not part of his nature. He was not one to comfort others, even those who barred pieces of their soul to him. "I'm not here to absolve you."

Bruce froze at that.

And then he laughed. It lacked humor, instead, laced with desperation; too harsh and acidic coming from him. He put his entire body into it, clutching at his sides, cradling himself as if his arms were the only things holding himself together. He laughed and there was nothing kind about it. It was full-bodied, bordering on a cackle, wheezy and loud, echoing against the cathedral walls. It was, Jonathan noticed, somewhat impressed, a passable imitation of Jerome.

Bruce laughed until his laughter began to hiccup out, and he brought a hand up to his mouth like he was trying to keep something in. And then he was crying — sobbing, really — laughing still — wrung out and hollow. It was pitiful, bordering on deranged, and Jonathan drank it in. He felt struck, an anchor of lead wrapped around his legs, forcing him to take in the breakdown he managed to coax out.

"I'm not here to absolve you," Bruce repeated, his voice wrecked and shaking. "You're right. You're right, you're not, and I don't need you to— but _why_ are you here?"

It was a lofty, near unanswerable question.

Why was he here?

The church reminded him of both better and worse days. His mother used to drag him here, dressing him up in his Sunday best, all but begging him to sit quietly through sermons. His father had held her funeral here, as well. It was a closed casket affair, as her body had been burnt so horrifically — a fact that Jonathan was unfortunately aware of as he'd opened the casket, just once, just to see. He'd had nightmares for months afterward.

Before the bridges blew he hadn't had the peace of mind to visit again. He was apprehensive about what he'd find as if his mother's' ghost was left haunting the place — as if she would have cared to see the beast her son had transformed himself into.

Why was he here?

He refused to dwell on the answer.

Instead, he deflected the question. "Why are you?"

"I asked you first," Bruce said, looking miserable but more patched together than he had been. His fit of emotion was over as quickly as it came.

"And I didn't answer."

Bruce turned to him, his eyes searching over his face, looking for something. "So it seems we've reached an impasse."

Jonathan hummed. "What are you going to do now?"

A beat passed.

And then, firmly—

"I'm leaving." Bruce must have caught onto his confusion because he quickly added, "Gotham. I'm leaving Gotham. Now that reunification with the mainland is finally possible I think it's time."

"What do you mean you're leaving?" Jonathan asked, startlingly serious.

He wasn't sure if he was comprehending him properly. There had to be something else. There had to be something he was missing — a trick or a test. There was no way that Bruce Wayne would give up on Gotham, especially when Jonathan knew first hand how much effort he was putting into quote-unquote saving it.

Bruce, however, remained steadfast. "There's nothing here for me anymore. At least nothing I can protect."

So there it was.

He'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop in relation to Bruce Wayne since their first impromptu meeting. He knew that there was no way any single person could be so ineffably good and kind. He knew that there was a catch, some horrific fatal flaw that would balance the scales out, counteracting all of his faith and goodwill. That ego would end up being his downfall, Jonathan hadn't expected and, despite himself, he could feel annoyance begin to prickle under his skin.

The entitlement of it all — hiding resolutely beneath Bruce's implication that whatever — whoever — he had that remained in Gotham was only as important as his ability to protect them — grated at him far more than it should have, probably.

It reminded him of his father.

_(stop, Johnny. stop! stop there! we've started the protocol—I can't do it again—just think of it, Johnny. no more fear—I'm not even afraid like you—we're all afraid. every man and woman on the planet, we're all standing on the edge of the abyss, paralyzed by fear. come on, son. trust me. I want to help you. and mankind. mankind Johnny. now, you must be brave, hm? come on, son. are you with me?_

_are you with me? are you with me? are you with me?)_

Gerald Crane had his own personal ideal. His fixation on an impossible to reach greater good caused him to tear down everyone that remained around him. Not purposefully, not maliciously, but out of care — out of _love_ — because he knew best, not only for himself but for everyone. For Jonathan, specifically.

The attitude set his teeth on edge.

He was sharper than usual. "How can you protect anyone if you're not here?"

"Everyone I care about gets hurt because of me— because I make no secret that I care. If I remove myself from the situation entirely than they have a better chance of not being hurt through association."

"How naive are you?" he asked, anger loosening his tongue. "People get hurt. That's _life_. You don't get to control the uncontrollable by— _what?_ Running away?"

That wouldn't do.  What made him think that he was allowed to leave — as if nothing tethered him to Gotham — as if Jonathan was through with him?

Bruce was shaking his head. He was always so quick to denial, so self-assured, so self-centered. "I'm not running away. Gotham is my home. It always will be, and I'll come back when I'm in a position to help people— all people." He said it imploringly, faux-selflessness dripping off of each word. "I can't help in the way I need to, yet. I'm not strong enough, but I will be and once I am, I'll return."

Jonathan laughed bitterly, his fingers twitching. He missed his needle-tipped gloves. He missed his suit. "Tell me, baby, how long is it gonna take you to become _strong enough?_ A year? Two? Five?"

"As long as it takes," Bruce said.

That wasn't an answer. Even worse, he was starting to sound snippy. As if he had the right. As if he wasn't the deluded one.

Irritation was making him careless, reckless in a way that he usually took great care to avoid. It made way for pointless mistakes, and he had no time to make mistakes of any kind. Without his sensibility who would he be? As impetuous as Jerome, or, worse, his father? Both were unpleasant choices.

And yet he couldn't help himself. All of his cool restraint abandoned him.

"You're an idiot."

Bruce spluttered, "What—?"

"Did I stutter? You're an _idiot_ ,"  Jonathan repeated, horrifically honest for once. He felt half-way betrayed by Bruce's attitude; his egotism and his ignorance. For someone who claimed to care about people — for someone he knew did care about people — his blindness in the face of his own faults was near maddening. "You're not being noble. You're being _selfish_."

"I never said I was trying to be noble," he said, needlessly patronizing. Jonathan wanted to tear his tongue out. "I'm not perfect and I don't pretend to be, and I don't owe you _any_ explanation. I'm leaving for the people I care about. To help them. This— _everything_ that I do is for _them_. That's not selfish. You said that you weren't here to absolve me? Good. Just remember that you're not here to judge me, either, _especially_ when you have no moral high ground to stand on whatsoever, _Scarecrow._ "

Again, Jonathan laughed. He couldn't help himself. "That's the catch, isn't it? I'm not here to be your conscious. I shouldn't be. That would be a nightmare, wouldn't it? Piece of advice, though? You're delusional if you think leaving Gotham is anything but selfish."

Bruce's outrage was tangible. In any other situation, it would have been delicious. "You don't _know_ me. You can't claim to know my motivations."

"Sure I can," he said, gleefully insolent. "I just did, didn't I? Let me repeat myself. I said that you're being selfish."

"I'm not!" And he was shouting now, his voice cracking. "I'm not being selfish! But even if I _was_ would that be such a terrible thing? Are people not allowed to want things for themselves anymore?"

He was so close to a realization, just barely balancing on the knife's edge, ready to drop away from his denial.

In any other situation, Jonathan would have tried to lead him to it gently, cottoning the edges of the truth, but now he was too angry, flooded with burning, white-hot outrage that made him even crueler than usual.

"I don't _care_ if you're selfish. I could honestly care less. Just _admit_ it. Leave Gotham because you want to leave— for whatever reason you have, big or small, it doesn't matter, just stop hiding behind the people you care about. Own up to your darkness and stop pretending that you're better than everyone else because you care. You're not better, you're just a coward."

"I'm not using anybody as an excuse," Bruce said, shaking. "This isn't something I made up in my head to make myself feel better. The people I love keep getting hurt because of _me_. That's the reality I live in, and it's my responsibility to protect them."

He scoffed. "And what? You don't think it'll hurt them more if you just leave indefinitely? Are you gonna do them the favor of letting them know or will you just vanish in the night?"

He ignored the barb. "Better hurt than dead."

"That's not your call to make. They could die at any moment of any day, whether you're here or not. That's _life_. That's _always_ been life. People die. You're not God. Bad things don't happen because of you."

Bruce was shaking his head before he even finished speaking. His hands were curled into themselves, knuckles white, held tight enough that his nails had to be cutting into his skin. "Selina was only paralyzed to get to _me_. Alfred's back was broken to send a message to _me_. How is that not my fault?"

Jonathan wanted to grab him by the shoulders. He wanted to rattle his brain around until sense restored itself in his head. He wanted to scream.

"Stop doing _that_. Stop taking their tragedies and blaming yourself. You're not the victim here. Stop _trying_ to be— you're not paralyzed, you're back is fine." He rubbed his eyes, frustrated beyond what he believed was possible. "I held your butler hostage once. Do you remember that? You watched as a look-alike carved into his face. Do you blame yourself for that, too? Or do you only care when the people being hurt affect you directly? It's not very altruistic, but—"

"That's not fair, I—"

" _Life_ isn't fair," he spat. "People get hurt, people that we care about, and there's nothing we can do about it. That doesn't make what happens to them your fault. Take some fucking responsibility for your guilt and realize that the only reason you want to leave Gotham is that you're _scared_. You're a scared little boy too afraid to really look at the world and see that there are people around him who care, because if you do that then you have to care in return. _Heaven forbid_."

Silence fell between them. It was asphyxiating. Cloying.

Jonathan was breathing heavily, mind racing. He'd said too much. He got too attached and let too much slip. Honesty was something that he wished to have no part in — but he did, and the more time he spent around Bruce, the more he found himself telling the truth, letting pieces of himself, long since hidden away, fall into the light.

He shouldn't have cared, but, for some unknowable reason, he couldn't stop. There was no clear explanation for his investment. Bruce Wayne wanted to leave Gotham, frightened and alone, so what? It shouldn't have been his business, and yet.

Bruce stood up then, his movement jerky like he was unsure if his limbs would cooperate. His face was pinched, tired. He was always tired, wasn't he? It had to be exhausting hanging on the edge of a great moral dilemma day in and day out. On anyone else, such visible signs of weakness would have been a cause for exploitation and nothing more, but on Bruce, like with the many other parts of himself he'd revealed, it was endearing.

"I have to do this. I have to go." He said, pacing, drained by the conversation they shared. The words sounded fragile in his mouth. "There's no other way."

"Oh, baby," Jonathan half-cooed, far from through with him. "Who would you be without your heroics?"

Bruce shook his head, refusing to meet his eyes. "This isn't about heroics."

"Isn't it?"

"Haven't you heard?" he asked, near mocking. "Gotham has no heroes."

That was _—_

Unexpected.

Jonathan could only blink, thrown, once again, by the bitter edges of self that Bruce kept revealing. And to think he used to consider him boring.

_Gotham has no heroes._

Those weren't his own words. He knew what it sounded like to parrot back words born of hate. He knew how they festered.

_(I can cure mankind of fear—I can cure mankind of fear—I can cure mankind of fear—_

_are you with me?)_

"Who told you that?"

Bruce looked at him. His eyes were dark, gleaming. Any other moment and the sight of him in tears would have been lovely, but now it only served to hurt him, a knife-sharp pain buried in his hollow chest. It was pathetic. "Does it matter?"

Jonathan wanted to scream at him. How could he be so blind? How could he let his life be ruled in such a way?

"Just tell me who told you."

He seemed to struggle with himself — with the phantom of whoever still hung over him. He stood, blanketed by darkness, the curls of his hair glimmering in the scant light, haloing him as he crumbled. "It was Jerome."

He probably shouldn't have been surprised, but he was.

Of all the answers he'd been expecting — mundane ones, mostly: regretful words from a mentor or schoolyard taunts — he hadn't considered Jerome Valeska. It was an oversight on his part. He knew from experience how good Jerome had been at worming his particular brand of poison into people's heads. Coming from an anarchist, his dedication to manipulation was impressive. Still, the thought of Bruce being so affected by anything Jerome had said to him, set his stomach rolling in jealousy.

He found himself asking for clarification, still stuck on the idea. "Jerome Valeska?"

"No," Bruce said with an exaggerated, and uncalled for, roll of his eyes. "The _other_ Jerome that actively worked to ruin my life."

He ignored him.

"Let me get this straight," Jonathan said, incredulously. "You're basing this entire complex you have with blame and self-pity on something that Jerome Valeska told you? Are you trying to prove him right?"

He shook his head, looking as sure of himself as ever. "He told me that Gotham had no heroes the second time he tried to kill me. I didn't believe him. I thought— I still do _think_ that there are good people living here, but— maybe having good people around doesn't mean anything when the bad ones hold all the power. Jerome— he knew that, I think. He knew that as long as Gotham stayed the same that nothing would change."

The only thing Jonathan was sure about Jerome was that he would be laughing if he could hear about the effect he had on Bruce.

"He was crazy."

Bruce frowned at him, unimpressed. "So are you, according to the State. And, you know what? Maybe I am too. It doesn't matter, though. None of it _matters_ because he was right. This city is _sick_. It doesn't need a hero."

Jonathan scoffed. "That doesn't stop you from wanting to be one, does it?"

"Everyone always says that," Bruce said, pacing again with even greater frenzy than before. "Everyone thinks that I _want_ to be a hero— to always save the day and stop tragedies and save lives. To do what I couldn't do with my parents. Am I close? Am I on the right track?" He laughed, his face twisting up harshly. "You think I want to be some— _what?_ Standard? A paradigm of moral integrity? You _think_ because I care about people that there has to be a catch, something I can use to boost my ego, right?

"Have you _ever_ considered, though, that maybe, just _maybe_ , I don't want to be the hero? That maybe I'm happy just being a good person and not some impossible to reach ideal? _Maybe_ I want to be myself. _Maybe_ I don't want to have to tear down _everything_ I've worked for these last few years to prove everyone right, and _maybe_ I'd like to just— I don't know— _be!"_

There was so much force behind his words. He couldn't help but wonder who he was trying to convince.

"You want to save people, though. It's written on your face. You want to be a hero. Who would you be without that part of your identity?"

He sighed in frustration. "Wanting to save people doesn't make you a hero. Don't put me on a pedestal. Everything I do is dictated by what other people want from me— not what _I_ want. It's _never_ what I want. You want a hero? Sorry to tell you this, but I don't think Gotham has any room for heroes, and even if it did I don't think I _want_ to be the type of hero that this city deserves."

He turned his back on him then, staring up, once again, at the crucifixion. "I've done terrible things. Things that I'll never be able to atone for. But I _try._ And I _help_ because the people who live here deserve better than they get and if I have the ability to make things better, even in ways that seem unimportant to you, and I don't then I'm just part of the problem. Knowing that doesn't make me a hero."

His fingers twitched. He could practically taste the conflict twisting in his head. Bruce Wayne was such a frightened thing, so scared of his own potential. Jonathan wanted nothing more than ask him what terrible, unatonable things he'd done. He wanted to wash himself in his greatest sins. He wanted too much, probably.

He, however, decided not to push.

Setting aside his distaste for heroics, he said, in a way that he hoped was at least somewhat coaxing, "Oh, baby, your eyes are open, but you're not _looking_. You want to protect your loved ones. You want to help people— you want to help this _city_. Why leave?" He let his question hang in the air for a few moments. "Don't you see? You're already strong enough to protect them. They're alive, aren't they? Hurt and traumatized, sure, but is that any different than what they'd be otherwise? All of Gotham is hurt and traumatized. You can't fix that by leaving."

"Then what would you suggest I do?" He asked, clearly only humoring him.

"Your parents were pillars of this city," Jonathan said, drinking in the way Bruce seemed to freeze at the mention of them. "Everyone knows that. My dad used to talk about their deaths, sometimes. He liked to talk about what it meant for the city— for the masses. Your name means something even if you want to pretend it doesn't. Gotham fell apart after they died, didn't it? That was the turning point. The spark that started the demolition. _Use that._

"You keep talking about how you lost your home and what memories you have left, but you haven't lost everything. You still have their legacy. _You_ are their legacy. So, you do what they would have done. They loved this city, right? Doesn't that make it your responsibility to rebuild it? Put your blood into making Gotham the place you want it to be. Turn it into something they'd be proud of— a place where you can protect the people you want to protect. This city is standing because of you. Don't let anyone here forget that."

Bruce was quiet for a long moment, contemplating. Jonathan wished he could know what was running through his mind, hoping some of it would take root. "I don't have to be in Gotham to rebuild it. I could go out of state— out of the country, even."

"That's sort of callous, isn't it? You'd leave the last thing that ties you to your parents in the hands of strangers?"

"If that's what it took to ensure everyone's safety?" He shrugged. "If need be. They would understand. Gotham was everything to them. If there was even a _chance_ I could make it into something they'd be proud of… I think I'd have to take it."

"I see," he said, growing sharper in his mounting desperation. "It took some time, but I think I finally understand. You're afraid, aren't you? You're scared that your parents would have chosen Gotham over you, and now you're trying to rationalize that fear by doing the same to the people you care about. Is it alleviating the sting at all or making it worse?

Bruce turned back around to glare at him, his expression was stormy. "Don't talk about my parents."

Jonathan clucked his tongue. "Sorry," he said in complete insincerity. "Did I hit a nerve?"

"You should stop," he warned. There was something dangerous glinting in his eyes. Interesting.

Once again, he ignored him.

"How much do you think it'll hurt your friends when you leave them here?" he asked, cruelly curious. "Do you think that transferring your own feeling of abandonment is going to make you feel better or worse in the long run?"

"I'm not abandoning anyone."

"You are," Jonathan argued, without sympathy. "You just don't see it because that's how it's always been for you, right? People are always leaving, aren't they? Hardly anyone in your life is stable and the few that are keep getting hurt. You're trying to protect yourself, baby. Nothing wrong with that. Only, shouldn't your focus be on protecting everyone else? Isn't that what you've been preaching?"

For just a moment, his emotionless facade wavered. "I'm doing this for them. I'm trying to protect _them_."

He softened his voice, speaking to Bruce as if he were a frightened animal. "I know that, but don't you think that the best place to help them — to _protect_ them — would be where you could keep a watchful eye out?"

"They'll get hurt because of me," he said, sounding dubious despite himself.

"They'll get hurt anyways. That's life."

Bruce blinked slowly, avoiding Jonathan's eyes entirely, instead choosing to look to the left of him as if that would shelter him from the truth. He seemed suspended in his own thoughts, finally free-falling from the safety of his own denial. There was something new in the way he held himself, the straightening of his shoulders as he stood before him. It wasn't defeat but— acknowledgment, maybe.

After a long silence had passed, he spoke up, half-tentative, half-calculating. "Would you live in a Gotham that I built?"

The question was casual enough, but the ramifications echoed. Jonathan had won their argument. Jonathan had, as evidenced, some amount of sway over Bruce's decisions. He had power over him, in one way or another, whether he knew it or not. He had to keep himself from smiling.

"I doubt it could be worse than the one I live in already."

Bruce looked at him, something warm in his gaze. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, suddenly back at ease, as if the whole conversation had never happened. "We're not the same, you and I," he said, the words honest and fragile and probably better off unsaid, "But I think we could have been."

What could he possibly say to that? Was there anything that could match the weight of Bruce's unnecessary honesty?

He continued, seemingly unaware of the effect his words had on Jonathan, though his cheeks looked flushed. "What are you going to do, now?"

Jonathan took that as his cue to stand. He felt naked standing without his suit, hyper-aware of his stature — his gangliness, the handful of inches he had on Bruce that made it so easy to stare down at him. "Oh, don't you worry a hair on your pretty, little head about me, baby. I'm going to do what I do best."

"Evade?" he asked, tongue-in-cheek.

He nearly smiled. "Survive."

Bruce stepped closer to him then, too close. He could see the burst blood vessels in his eyes. He could read his exhaustion and his hope and his desire as clear as day. If he wanted to, Jonathan could reach out a hand and brush it against his skin. If he wanted to, he could break the remaining distance between them and press into his body. If he wanted to, he could take the knife that he kept up his sleeve and sink it into his stomach.

"For what it's worth," Bruce said, his eyes fervently wide. "I like you better without the mask."

Then he reached out a hand, tucking Jonathan's own into his to shake. His grasp was tight, maybe too tight, and his skin was warm and it lingered longer than it should have, but he couldn't bring himself to care, because Bruce was smiling at him, just barely, and his voice was too forgiving when he said, "I'll see you around."

Jonathan had to hide a razor-sharp smile of his own.

He would, wouldn't he?

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is, as always, appreciated! my biggest fear is that the characters came across as ooc so if that was the case, please let me know.
> 
> you can find me on tumblr as jeromevalseka!


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